Sympathy For The Devil

Wake up today around one, when my grandmother comes storming into my house. Her car was broken and she needed me to run her to the “beauty salon”. First off there is not a beauty salon around that can help her. Agree to take her if she pays for me to get a hair cut and manicure.

As we walk into this hell hole of a beauty parlor am frightened to see that everyone in the salon either looks like trailer trash or is trailer trash. Am reluctant to let such filth touch my body but remember that it is a free and sit down. As the twelve-year old who has been sold into white slave labor begins to scrub my nails the thing that I can only assume was a women with the scissors asks how I want it to look. Tell her I want my hair cut like Brad Pitt’s from Fight Club. She said that her training never involved learning how to duplicate a hair style but she will try her best. Was about to fake a seizure to prevent her from touching me but look down at the ten-year old doing my nails and think that she might actually have a career in her future as my hands have not looked this good in a while. When the hair lady broke out the sheep sheering sheers to use on my delicate scalp tell her that if she wants to keep her fingers she will never turn one of those on in my presence ever again and immediately demand that she return to using the scissors.

Upon completion of my hair cut and she hands me a mirror, about pass out when I discover that the idiot has chunked my hair in places I did not even know could get chunked. Immediately throw a fit and demand that she refund my money. She reminded me that I did not pay for the cut and that I got what I paid for. Obviously growing up in the harsh world of the trailer park has taught this woman a thing or two about life. Look down at my nails and am relieved to see the eight-year old did a fantastic job. Decide to leave well enough alone and tell my grandmother I will be back later to pick her up.

Head off to the magistrates office to renew my powers of Notary Public. Whilst there ask the honorable judge presiding over my ceremony if there was anything I could do about throwing the women who butchered my hair in a maximum security prison for men. He asked why I even paid for that hair cut and then told him I did not. He said there was nothing he could do but that my nails looked nice. Drive home furious that there are people in the world who get away with and thrive on the humiliation of others.

Six hours later remember that there is something I had to do but could not for the life of me remember what it was.